


Useless

by hearts_kun



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canon-Typical Violence, Detective!Kurusu, M/M, Obsession, POV First Person, interrogation room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 07:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16593107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_kun/pseuds/hearts_kun
Summary: Akechi fell into the obsession trap before he was able to shoot his rival, and what now? Lying in the interrogation room, beaten up, he ceases struggling.





	Useless

**Author's Note:**

> Enormous thank you to IWP_chan for help with editing.

Drool crawls down my chin slowly to reach the floor. My mouth is wet and full and disgusting. I blame it on the drug. At some point, inevitably, the guard notices, walks closer and kicks me in the guts, not even bothering to pull his hands out of his pockets. Nausea and pain jolt my insides. Sour saliva mixes with yellow bitterness jumping to the edge of my throat. I try to swallow and move away, even just for a bit — he doesn’t let me, kicking me again as I try not to throw up. Dizziness disorientates me.

“Show some respect, you little brat,” the guard says, getting bored of beating me for a moment. I don’t answer. Of course. Just briefly wonder when _he_ will show up. I know it’s his fault. I should have shot him sooner, but now I’m lying in my own drool, bile and stains of blood, and I know even if I had a gun — these hands would misfire into my own forehead.

The guard snorts, either offended or satisfied with my weakness. I don’t find the power to care. All that is waiting for me until _he_ comes — just more pain and sickness. I’ve fooled myself. Hatred, boiling in me; desire to revenge, to tear apart, to prove my worthiness to someone — will all be in vain. I’m not alright with that. But…

The guard exchanges glances with the other one and suddenly grabs my hair. It hurts, and I squeal and try to raise my head, but he pulls stronger and stronger. Bile crawls up my throat again. I gasp for air, and it feels like there’s none. Empty and stale.

“You, stupid useless piece of trash, killing people because of your stupid childish delusions,” his voice reaches me, but I don’t understand much. I don’t have to anyway. Pain pierces my head. I pass out.

***

_He_ really comes.

Not when I wake up, but much later, after a woman tries to interrogate me. I know her briefly, her face somewhere in my memory, but by the time we’re talking the drug still hasn’t worn off, and it all becomes blurry. Unclear. Through a wall of haziness, I can’t hear her, and I can’t recognize her.

I nod from time to time in hope that she will be satisfied and leaves early, giving me a short rest. My entire body hurts, making me want to disappear. Want to lie down on this dirty floor and breathe this stale air until I turn to dust that will not feel pain until _he_ comes and hands me the gun to—

I don’t get to rest, because she doesn’t leave in time. He asks her to, loosely leaning on the door frame. He’s in his comfort zone, and he came to do the thing he’s been waiting to do for so long. Through the blur that’s covering my eyes I see his slick abominable smile, and I smile back. A wave of warmth brushes the back of my head.

Prosecutor leaves, and so do the guards. We stay alone, a drug in my body, a holstered gun on his belt.

He takes his time. Approaches me slowly, not dropping a word. At some point my lips start shivering as though I’m about to cry, but my eyes aren’t wet. I don’t feel sadness or exhaustion or rage anymore. In his steps, in his gentle harmonious movements — there’s only grace and serenity. When he places himself quietly on the edge of the table and offers me to move closer, I simply obey. Turning my head away, because the right half of my face is dirty and stinking, and I don’t want him to get dirty. Bittersweet smile cuts through my face as a crack, resembling his.

This is it. The reason why I’m here — this warmth at the back; cheeks struggling to cover themselves with a bright red blush; this readiness, rib cage metaphorically open for a piercing stab. Come at me from the front, from the back, from the side, you don’t have to apologize, because I did this to myself. Someday, somehow something exploded in me into this tiny cosmos, turning you, a single point in the universe, into a whole world. Turning me, someone who always sought revenge, unable to pull the trigger every time you failed me.

I can’t bring myself to truly hate him. He knows he’s ruining me and everything I ever wanted, ever lived for — in fact, anything he does, he does deliberately to make it worse. And yet, I can’t.

He’s the one to pull the trigger now, and all I have left is to wait. Because I’m tired. Because there’s nothing to fight for now. Because the drug is poisoning me. Because I know he’ll hit my weak spot over and over again until I fall into his trap, just like now. And I know he will do so with ease. What could be easier than to use this… feeling that I have for him? The devastating knowledge of never being able to not follow, to not _obey_.

His hand is suddenly free of his usual stupid red glove and is resting on my left cheek. It’s warm, soft and dry. Unconsciously, I lean in, and there’s no strength in me to twitch and force myself away. Lingering, slowly burning desire of a very certain physical contact sets my lungs on fire as I breathe hot air out between my lips.

“Ready for the last interrogation?” he asks delicately.

Still bathing in the warmth of his hand, I nod. He brushes my cheek with his thumb: it’s a bit ticklish but a pleasant feeling. My insides are squeezed and are about to blow up and rush out of me through non-existent holes all over my body. Frustration, bitterness, carnivore butterflies in my stomach — all eating me alive. Such irony, isn’t it. I know it’s his fault; it doesn’t matter.

His fingers slide softly through my dirty hair, massaging the scalp so kindly, sending shivers down my spine, and, oh, I want to tell him it’s not necessary, he really doesn’t have to, but he smiles before I even dare to drop a word. He knows, too.

“We shall start then.”


End file.
